The Supermarket
by WriterJC
Summary: Steve and Jesse find trouble at the supermarket. Story Complete!


****

Disclaimer: The characters used within this story do not belong to me, but were borrowed for the purposes of this story. They belong to CBS/Viacom and their associated copyright holders. No profit made, and I promise to return them un. . . well, relatively unscathed. The plot and original characters, such as they are, are of my own imagining.

****

Synopsis: Steve and Jesse go shopping.This is a sequel of sorts to "Close To Home", which is posted on this site. Although both stories should stand alone. You do not have to read the other to understand what is going on here. 

****

Author's Notes: I feel as if I should apologize up front . . . 

* * *

****

At The Market

Dr. Mark Sloan stopped at the ER admitting desk and began to jot notes in a file. The day had been quite hectic, but there seemed to be a lull. He had to take his opportunities where he could to take care of the paperwork. 

He glanced up at the clock. It was just after 4 p.m. Dr Rousch would be coming on soon and then he could head home. He wondered how Steve was doing. He'd hated to leave him home, especially considering he'd just been released from the hospital that morning after a concussion and a dislocated shoulder. That was why he'd asked Jesse over. The two got on well together. He was relatively sure that Jesse could keep him out of trouble for an afternoon, no matter how grumpy a patient his son could be. 

He'd just closed the final folder when there was a commotion behind him. 

"Dad! Help!" A familiar voice reached his ears just as he focused on its owner. Both Jesse and Steve hobbled into the ER, holding onto one another. Both their clothes were stained in copious amounts of red. Mark gasped, and dropped the file folder to the floor as he rushed forward. 

THREE HOURS EARLIER 

Jesse turned onto the street leading to the beach house pondering Mark's oddly worded request that he go by and check on Steve. He should have been home resting, despite the fact that Mark had been called in that afternoon. Jesse imagined that his friend was probably laying out on the deck, enjoying a beautiful southern California afternoon. He smiled at the picture his mind created. 

He was still smiling when he pulled into the Sloan driveway. The smile faded away to surprise as he came front fender to rear fender with a yellow painted cab. He climbed out of the car, mildly curious, wondering if perhaps Steve had company. But then, the cabbie laid into his horn, causing him to start violently. Before his heart rate had a chance to settle, Steve Sloan appeared outside of the front door, guilt written all over him. 

"Jesse! Hi." Steve smiled broadly, his expression changing to a grimace as he tried to gesture with his left arm. Carefully immobilizing it, he pasted the smile back on his face. 

"Hi yourself," Jesse responded and headed up the steps to meet his friend. He was sure Steve wasn't so clueless as to miss the reproof he injected into his tone. "Lose your sling?" He gestured toward the recently dislocated arm with similar forced gaiety. 

"Well, you know. I didn't really need it anymore. I'm fine." 

"Imagine that? After only one day." 

"Truly amazing," Steve agreed with him. 

"Hey, I haven't got all day!" The irate cabbie's voice followed another toot of the horn. 

Steve started to raise his left arm, then changed to his right. "Just a minute!" 

"The meter's running!" 

Steve nodded distractedly. "Jess, I've gotta go." 

"Where you going?" Jesse asked. 

Steve squirmed. "Uh. . . to the precinct." 

"No you're not. You're on medical leave. I oughtta know. I'm your doctor. I signed the form myself."

"But that's the difference. I wasn't going there to work." 

Jesse's brows moved skyward. "Really? Why else would you be going?" 

"To pick up my truck. It's still there. The patrol officers took the other car back to the station." 

"Oh. So you want to drive, too? Now I know why Mark asked me to come over and keep you out of trouble." 

"What? He didn't say that." 

Jesse flashed a grin that begged to differ. "Excuse me." Ignoring Steve's look of astonishment he headed down toward the cab. He leaned toward the open driver's side window and flashed his best grin toward the bored looking man. "I'm his doctor," he gestured toward the front stoop. "He's been on some medication that has impaired his decision-making ability. He should not have called you. He won't be going anywhere." 

"What about my fare? I came all the way out here and the meter's running, Pal." 

Jesse looked at the red-lit numbers and grimaced. "Fine." He took out his wallet and gave the man a five. 

"Thanks." The cabbie said insincerely and slipped the money into his pocket, before gesturing toward the vehicle that was parked behind him. 

"Keep the change," Jesse murmured as he headed for his car. When he pulled back into the driveway minutes later, he noted that Steve was no longer on the porch, but he had left the door open. On thinking over what he had just done, he was surprised he hadn't been locked out. Entering the house slowly, he closed the door behind himself. He found Steve in the living room, staring mutinously out at the ocean. 

"Steve, I'm sorry I had to do that." 

"You didn't _have_ to do it," Steve replied, not turning, his tone brimming with sarcasm. "No one was forcing you. Contrary to what you and my father think, I don't need a babysitter." 

"We know you don't. But you have to admit that you do have a tendency to ignore medical advice. The meds you were given yesterday are pretty strong and linger in your system. That combined with the concussion and the fact that your dominant arm isn't up to snuff is a recipe for disaster. It just isn't safe for you to be driving yet." 

"But I feel fine, Jess." Steve turned and faced him. Jesse could see that the anger was gone and replaced by frustration. He understood it, but still he couldn't give in to his friend. 

"And that's the thing of it. You do feel fine because you don't realize how much your perceptions can be affected. We just don't want anything to happen to you." 

"I know." Steve relented. "Sorry I got mad at you." 

"I'm sorry too." Jesse said. "In a few days I'll drive you in myself to get your truck." 

"Thanks," Steve said, good humor returning. "So, since you sent my cab off, you can give me a ride to the supermarket." 

Jesse frowned in confusion. "You wanted your truck so you could pick up groceries?"

"I am allowed to cook aren't I?"

"Well, yeah. But no heavy lifting." 

"I'll try to avoid eating anything that qualifies. Look, I ruined breakfast yesterday and Dad's day off. I just didn't want him to have to come home and cook dinner tonight."

"Well, give me a list. I'll go for you." 

"It's going to be pretty hard to keep me out of trouble if you leave me here alone." 

"Thought you said you didn't need a babysitter?" 

"Come on, Jess. We're just going to the supermarket. What could possibly go wrong?" 

**

Steve opened his eyes and slowly focused on passing scenery. It took him several moments to realize that he was seated on the passenger side of Jesse's car. With horror, he realized that he must have fallen asleep. Instinctively he began to run damage control. 

"The weather's so nice, I think I must have dropped off." The last thing he needed was for Jess to turn around and take him back home without having accomplished his task. Or worse, calling his father.

Jesse didn't look as if he agreed with Steve's reasoning, but he did chuckle. That, Steve felt, was at least a good sign. 

"A little fatigue after a concussion isn't unusual," Jesse said. "And that little nap probably did you a lot of good. Rest is the best medicine for you right now. The body's best healing mechanisms work best while you're at rest, and your body knows when it needs rest. You've got to listen to it. . . "

Steve groaned mentally. Jesse was talking in Doctor mode. He hated doctor mode, especially when it related to what he needed to do about his own health. Forcing a grin, he interrupted Jesse's monologue. He chose to ignore the fact that he was lying through his teeth. "You may be right," he said. "I feel completely refreshed." 

The truth was that a mild headache was starting, radiating around from the base of his skull. And he was also pretty sure that the dose of pain medicine that his father had forced on him that morning was wearing off. He'd take a couple aspirins when he got back home.

Jesse shot him a curious look before pulling into a parking slot near the front of the Big Food Mart. 

"What are you doing?" Steve asked, staring pointedly through the windshield at a white and blue sign bearing the image of a wheelchair. "This is handicapped parking." 

"I'm a doctor and you're injured. You're already exhibiting signs of fatigue. We can park here." 

"No, I'm a cop and this is illegal. We cannot park here. Besides, I told you I'm fine." Steve felt irritation rising. 

"All right. On two conditions. One, when we get back to the beach house, you take a nap. And two, you wear the sling for two more days." 

"Jess, I don't need--"

"Or I could just tell Mark about the cab." 

"That's blackmail. . . also illegal." 

"I know." Jesse giggled. 

"Fine." Steve conceded. 

With a smug smile, Jesse backed out of the slot and circled the parking lot in search of a new space. 

Steve was beginning to wonder if he'd been had, when something caught his attention. It was a red and black Cadillac. He would have known it anywhere, the bad paint job notwithstanding. Especially considering the last time he'd seen it, it had been filled with rebellious young teenage boys bent on shooting him and Jimmy Andersen - a young man whose father lived in the neighborhood. His father had told him that Jimmy had been sent to the Midwest to spend time with an aunt. 

Quickly scanning the lot, he looked for any sign of the boys. The Big Food Mart shared a parking lot with a drug store, a video store and sandwich shop. The boys could have gone into any one of the establishments. A rush of adrenaline flushed his system as he spotted one of them standing near the front of the video store.

"Jess, let me borrow your cell phone," he said, never looking away from the young man smoking a cigarette near the front of the store. His phone was at the beach house charging.

His friend handed over his phone without question, a worried frown marring his brow. He turned, following Steve's gaze toward the front of the video store. "Something wrong?" 

Steve activated the cell phone's button, only to receive a low battery indication. Sighing heavily, he handed the device back.

"Sorry," Jess murmured. 

Steve ignored the apology. "I need you to park. Right here. Then I need you to go inside of the store and call for back up. Tell them my badge number." He displayed it for good measure. "Tell him that a suspect in an attempted homicide is in front of the Pick-A-Reel, and that an officer needs assistance." 

Jesse's eyes widened with understanding. "Steve, you can't do this," he objected, even as he obediently pulled into a parking space. "It's too dangerous. Why don't you go inside with me and we'll call for back up together?"

"They might recognize me, Jesse. I'm the one they shot at remember?"

"But Steve." 

"Go." Steve didn't have time to argue. "If you don't they might leave. I'm just going to sit out here and keep an eye on them." 

Jesse looked uncertain. "Well, I'm just going to run in and call and then I'll be right back. Don't do anything dangerous while I'm gone. Mark will kill me if anything happens to you." 

"I'll be careful." 

**

Jesse shot a last worried look at his friend before he climbed out of the car and headed toward the store. He didn't like this at all. It had trouble in bright red flashing neon lights pasted all over it. Especially since Steve was not at 100 percent. He had a sinking feeling that if he didn't do something to prevent it, before the day was out his friend would end up hurt or worse. 

During the rapid walk-run across the lot he tried to keep a surreptitious watch on the young man that Steve had spotted. The boy hadn't moved, but continued to hang out in front of the store smoking. 

The outside front of the grocery store was devoid of anything resembling a working pay phone. The one kiosk was pasted over with a half-faded out-of-order sign. 

"Terrific," Jesse murmured half under his breath, stepping back slightly, pretending to study the sky so he could sneak another glance toward the video store. What he saw sent his heart plummeting to his toes with dread. The boy was joined by another. 

Jesse glanced worriedly over toward the car and Steve. "Please don't do anything dangerous," he half-pleaded and half-prayed before turning back toward the boys. They seemed to be content to chat for a few moments. Jesse would not waste any more time. He headed into the store and made a bee-line for customer service. 

"I'm a doctor and I have an emergency! I need to use your phone!" He completely ignored the protests of the four customers that he'd cut in front of. 

The clerk looked as if she might protest, but Jesse cut her off. "It's a matter of life or death. Do you want that on your head? On the store's?" 

The woman quickly turned the phone in his direction, after which Jesse snatched up the receiver and began pushing buttons. He gave the message just as Steve had requested, making sure to relay just how urgent he felt the situation was. After getting his point across, he only wanted to get back out there. Steve was all alone, and he didn't have a good view of the parking lot from the customer service desk no matter how hard he craned his neck. But there were several questions that the dispatcher wanted answers to. 

Finally receiving the dispatcher's assurances that a patrol car would be on site in less than two minutes, Jesse murmured a hurried thanks and shoved the phone back at the customer service rep before heading off toward the door. He skidded to a halt in front of the large glass window. He could make out the sight of Steve standing face to face with two young men and things didn't appear to be going well. One of the boys stood a little ahead of the other. He waved his arms about broadly, an attitude of rebellion evident in his every motion. But Steve stood his ground. Then the lead boy pushed him. 

"Oh, no," Jesse groaned and rushed toward the doors, barely managing to wait long enough for them to slide open wide enough for him to pass through. Once on the other side, he headed off across the parking lot, his eyes never leaving the group of three near the red and black Cadillac. 

He'd missed Steve's reaction to being pushed, but two were still faced off against one, but the atmosphere was different. The boys weren't nearly as aggressive. Jesse slowed his pace. 

Just then a police cruiser pulled into the lot. Steve seemed to spot it the same time that the young men did. By then Jesse was close enough to hear the conversation. 

"You set me up!" The boy was again growing indignant. 

"Maybe a little," Steve admitted. "But what I said is still true. And this is as good a place as any to start." 

The boy looked at him for a long minute. He continued to stare while the officers handcuffed he and his friend. 

Jesse approached and blew out a relieved breath. "Whew! That looked a little close there. What did you say to them?" 

Steve grinned. "I just did what I thought Dad would do. I talked them into thinking it was their idea to turn their lives around. They're just a couple of middle class kids who wanna-be gangsters. Like Jimmy. They're in with the wrong crowd. "

"Wow." Jesse looked back at the boys as they were helped into the police cruiser. "I'm impressed. And no one got hurt." 

"I told you, Jess. Just a normal trip to the supermarket. . . " 

**

As Steve waved to the departing patrol car, he felt the surge of adrenaline fading away, leaving him feeling a little drained. The nagging headache had notched up a little into the range of more than mildly irritating. 

"So what are we going to get?" Jesse asked while they waited politely for a mother with a young son and daughter to enter the store ahead of them. The mother was admonishing Alan Michael Tracey that under no circumstances was he allowed to push the grocery cart; it was his sister's turn. Steve had to chuckle, he remembered those days with Carol.

"Steve?" Jesse repeated his name. 

Steve turned toward him and smiled. "Sorry Jess. Just reminiscing." Having entered the store, he headed for the stack of small carry baskets. "I thought we'd start with a salad." 

Jesse took the basket from him. "Oh, that sounds good. But you know what is great? When you add a little spinach greens in with your lettuce. That would really impress your dad." 

Steve sighed his frustration over the carry basket, and set off toward the produce section. "Why would that impress dad? The stuff that comes in the bag is perfectly fine." He reached toward one of the bags in question.

"You can't serve bag salad, Steve." 

"Why not? It's green. Mostly. And it's got little slivers of carrots and stuff. It's perfectly healthy."

"Steve. . . " 

Steve could tell he was going to be nagged about this. And he already knew that before the evening was over Jesse would have wrangled an invitation to dinner anyway. "Tell you what," he said. "Why don't you make the salad, then you can put anything you want in it." 

"Deal." Jesse grinned happily. 

"Can I at least choose the dressing?" Steve questioned. 

"As long as it isn't bleu cheese." 

"Fine with me." He shot his friend a final amused look before he went in search of the row containing salad dressings. He finally found it a couple rows over from the produce section. Just as he began scanning the shelves a scream pierced the air. 

The adrenaline that had settled down, kicked back into high gear. He ran toward the source of the sound, back toward the produce area. 

"My purse! My purse! Someone's stolen my purse!" 

"Ma'am, let me help you. I'm a police officer." Steve pulled out his badge and showed it to her. 

The woman seemed to calm slightly. "Someone stole my purse." She pointed to an overflowing grocery cart. "It was right here. It has all of my money, my keys, everything!" Her voice started to rise as she began to grow frantic again. 

Steve glanced beyond the woman to where Jesse was approaching. The young doctor shook his head to the question that Steve hadn't had to verbalize. He hadn't seen anything. 

"Do you remember what he looked like?" Steve refocused his attention on the woman. "What was he wearing?" 

The woman stared at him uncomprehendingly for several moments. 

"Ma'am," Steve tried to refocus her attention. "Do you remember what he looked like? So we can try to find him. To get your things back." 

"What's going on here?" 

Steve turned at the new voice, and found a man dressed in dark slacks, a white shirt and a tie. The gold nameplate pinned to his white shirt identified him as Rick Henley - Manager. 

"My purse was stolen!" The woman exclaimed. "I didn't see who took it. I just looked down into my basket and it was gone!" 

"Well, did you notice anyone hanging around?" The manager asked. 

The woman shook her head, then stopped. "Just him and him." She nodded toward Steve and Jesse. "He was squeezing the bell peppers." She directed an accusing finger toward Jesse. 

Steve and Jesse shared a bewildered look. "I'm a police officer." Steve revealed his badge again for the manager's benefit. The last thing he needed was for the situation to get out of hand. "Is it possible that someone may have taken your purse before you came to this part of the store?"

"No," the woman shook her head firmly. "I remember specifically that it was here while I picked up something from the seafood counter. I remember because I disagreed with the clerk on the weight. It was there then. I came from the meat counter directly here." 

Steve turned and looked in the direction of the meat counter which was easily visible from the produce section. "Why don't we take this investigation in that direction," he said. The woman, the manager, Jesse, and a small group of other customers who had taken an interest followed him toward the seafood and meat counter. 

There, near a large aquarium containing lobster sat an unattended cart. In the top of the cart sat a small neat brown purse. "Is this the purse in question, Ma'am?" Steve asked, displaying the evidence? 

The woman looked in his direction, and a red flush suffused her face. "Oh. I'm so sorry. . . . " 

"Don't worry," Steve encouraged her. "It could happen to any one of us." 

Jesse sidled up alongside him as the group began to break up. "For a second there, I thought I was about to be accused of being a purse snatcher." 

"Yeah, me too. Although, that has to be the quickest case I've ever solved." 

"You do seem to be working a lot on your day off, Officer Sloan."

"Two crimes fought in under twenty minutes. I think I'm on a roll." 

"Speaking of rolls. What kind of bread are we having?" 

Steve sighed. "Sour dough okay?" He was fairly sure that Jesse was about to weigh in on an opinion there, too. 

The remainder of the shopping went without a hitch. They'd gathered the meats and desert and were headed for the check out counter when Steve stopped. "Dressing." 

"Huh?" Jesse shot him a confused look, but followed as he turned and headed off toward isle 7. 

"I forgot the dressing," Steve said over his shoulder. The young mother who'd preceded them into the store was browsing the condiments. Her children were jockeying for position at the head of the grocery cart.

"Oh. Think we'll need steak sauce?" Jesse asked, moving to the opposite side of the row where the bottles of A1 and Heinz 57 were lined up. He settled the carry basket on the floor while he began going through the bottles.

"Stop it you two!" The mother's frustrated tone halted the pair in mid struggle. She glanced sheepishly toward Steve and went back to her shopping. The kids immediately went back to their struggle.

Steve smiled encouragingly in her direction as he answered Jesse's question. "Nah, we have some." He moved a few feet farther along and began to browse the dressings. 

"They remind me of my sister and I." He told the woman in a stage whisper. 

"With Tabasco?" Jesse called, his question interrupting.

"What?" Steve looked back toward his friend. "Why would we need Tabasco?" 

"It's bold." 

"Too bold," Steve vetoed. Then chuckled at Jesse's disappointed look as he went back to browsing the items on the shelf. Steve just shook his head and turned back toward the dressings. 

"Hope you like hot sauce," the woman gestured toward Jesse. "A lot." 

Steve turned and watched as Jesse hefted a large bottle from the shelf. He turned back at a surprised grunt from the woman's direction. "Mind if I help you with that?" he asked, quickly moving to her side, unable to watch her struggle with the oversized jar. 

She offered a relieved look. "It's heavier than I thought. I'm doing a party for 20 kids and I need pickles. I ran out last time. It got pretty ugly."

"I understand," Steve chuckled, automatically stooping down to reach for the jar. He'd grabbed for it and was moving to stand when Jesse yelled. 

"Steve! No!" 

Steve spun and caught sight of the grocery cart moving rapidly at him from one direction and Jesse from the other. He reacted instinctively, shifting the weight of the jar into his dominant arm. Pain shot through his shoulder and everything sort of blurred for him after that. 

He knew that the cart hit him; the pickles hit the floor and, remarkably, bounced; he stumbled into Jesse, and somewhere in all of the melee, Jesse's very large jar of hot sauce crashed to the floor and splattered. When everything finally settled, he was on the floor, having landed on Jesse. There was a burning sensation in his left arm and there was complete silence. 

"Oops." A young voice uttered into the stillness. Then the chaos started. 

"Alan Michael Tracey, look what you've done!" The mother's voice sounded. Running footsteps approached and distantly beyond the sounds of "that's the cop who found my purse!" and "he's a doctor, is he breathing?" and "Ow! You broke my toe!" Steve heard a voice echo over the loud speaker. "Clean up on Isle 7. Repeat: Mega clean up on Isle 7." 

**

"Steve! Jesse! What happened?" Mark rushed forward as Steve and Jesse hobbled to a halt just inside the ER doors. 

"He's got a concussion!" Steve announced, breathing heavily. He was exhausted, but he'd accomplished his goal. His friend was at Community General where he could get proper medical assistance. 

"He broke my toe!" Jesse contradicted, struggling to hobble farther along while putting as little weight as possible on his left foot. "I need a splint and an x-ray." 

"Well you made me hurt my arm again!" Steve couldn't stop the petty comment as he allowed his right arm to drop to his side when the shorter man moved away. Taking a step back, he leaned against the wall careful not to jar the wounded arm in question. Jesse immediately began to tilt. Or maybe it was the room. He wasn't sure. But Mark moved forward immediately to Jesse's side before calling calmly over his shoulder to one of the nurses. 

"Get me two gurneys please." 

The argument continued. 

"Well you got hot sauce all over my car!" 

"Well you got it all over my shirt!" Steve shot back. "This is one of my favorite shirts." 

"Well, I didn't ask you to pick up the pickles." 

Steve was exasperated. "I was fine with the pickles, you shouldn't have yelled like that. And then there was the kid with the cart. . . " 

Mark shook his head and cut in. "Jesse, did you have any loss of consciousness?" He asked, helping the young doctor onto a gurney. He then shined a light into his eyes. 

"No. I was just a little dazed." 

"Right. That's a concussion." Steve felt vindicated. "That's why I drove him in." 

"I was dazed with pain and shock cause I couldn't believe you broke my toe. And you shouldn't have been driving." 

"He does have a point, Steve," Mark said, turning toward him. "You shouldn't have been driving." His eyes then focused on his right temple and felt around the goose egg Steve was sure had grown there. "And it looks like you hit your head, too." 

"It was just a little knock," Steve insisted as he pushed away from the wall and immediately the world began to go yellow around the edges. "I'm fine. . .really. . . " Sound started to fade. His final memory was of his body as it started to head south. 

**

Mark rounded the corner into Steve's room. As he suspected, Jesse was there at his side, a pair of crutches propped against a nearby wall. The younger doctor had been right. His toe had been broken. 

"He awake?" Mark asked. 

"Yes." Steve yawned, and opened his eyes. "What happened?"

"Apparently the two of you can't be trusted to go to the supermarket," Mark replied with a chuckle. He had gotten the entire story out of Jesse while he was putting the cast on. 

"It was a freak accident. It could have happened to anyone." 

"I doubt that." Mark couldn't hold back a grin. 

"Okay. So what happened down in the ER?" 

"Oh, that. You fainted, son." 

"I what? Dad, I don't faint." 

"Well, you did. But it was a combination of factors that caused it. We've run tests to make sure that second knock hasn't caused any problems and you've come up clean. But you're going to be held overnight anyway for observation." 

"Can't you observe me at home? Or Jesse?" 

Mark looked between the two of them. "Uh. . . no." The objections began immediately. 

"Come on, Dad! I promise not to. . . " 

"Come on, Mark! You can't blame. . . " 

The End. 

* * *

Author's Note: I found this amusing so I just had to add it. I happened to be checking the LA Times Online looking for the name of local grocery stores. Well, confusing bad news going on with grocery stores, so I made up my own store names. But, in my search I found this lovely little gem. It was found under the Only In LA column: 

--

'Tis the season to become disoriented while shopping. The crime log of the Big Bear Grizzly, in terse cop talk, carried a "report of purse stolen from grocery cart while shopping....  
  
"Party was talking to store staff about high price of potatoes and turned around and continued shopping, placing potatoes in the wrong cart." The newspaper added that the missing cart and purse were found "by the bananas."  
--

So I guess, reality IS stranger than fiction. This is especially funny because I shamefully admit to doing the same thing around the holiday season. I accidentally drove off with someone else's cart. Didn't discover my error till I was in line at the register contemplating moving to the 10 items or less lane. . . . How embarrassing. . . . Took me ten minutes to find my cart which was, incidentally, by the magazines. . . 


End file.
